


Apollo Imprisoned

by Elliot



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Don't copy to another site, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-31
Updated: 2019-08-31
Packaged: 2020-10-04 09:09:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20468561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elliot/pseuds/Elliot
Summary: “Fancy that,” Grantaire spoke from the corner of his cell, “Apollo in a holding cell.” He had bothered to sit up to behold the righteous and presently confused God separated from him by cold metal bars.





	Apollo Imprisoned

“Fancy that,” Grantaire spoke from the corner of his cell, “Apollo in a holding cell.” He had bothered to sit up to behold the righteous and presently confused God separated from him by cold metal bars.

“What?” The God demanded, sharp eyes startled and now cast upon him. Poor God. They had barely released him into this glorified cage. He was obviously still embodying the aspect of War.

“Yes, you.” The fury in those blue eyes should scare him, but he was too much in awe of them to be frightened. “Apollo imprisoned. How dare they. HEY JAVERT, HOW DARE YOU!” He called out to the front office.

There came no reply.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” Oh right, there was the God. The furious God. Turned less righteous now and more judging, disappointed, accusing. It was not a good look on him, Grantaire decided shocking a hand through his hair. He had distracted the God from rioting against the good men that had put him here. Good. Some would crumble under the divine attention. Grantaire thought he might have one day, but he had long since stopped caring about what others thought of him.

“Been here long enough that that blissful state has passed, _Mon Ange_.” The line of his mouth curved lazily at the edges.

“Enjolras.” The God had crossed his arms. Underneath the shirt he saw the swell of muscles. He could tell the man was a fighter. The bruising on his cheekbone confirmed that, as did the split lip. Perhaps the God was not as untouchable as he had always believed. All the better. Untouchable Gods were the worst. They spoke about destiny and victory but never showed what it took or even partook in the heated battle. He much preferred this. A blemished God.

Grantaire’s eyes shot up at the word, his turn to be confused. “What?” 

“Not ‘Apollo’. Not ‘Your Angel’. It is Enjolras. My name is Enjolras.” The words were sharp, pointed. They did not allow for arguing. Good thing Grantaire had an issue with authority and a deep need to be smote down by glorious figures like this avenging angel.

“Grantaire.” He gave in kind, for now playing along. The corners currently set in a smirk creeping higher into a daring grin. “What did they get you for then? A golden God like you. Damsels in distress? Defended the homeless against rogue ruffians? Defended the honours of a lass like a modern knight? You know chivalry fell on its sword, don’t you?”

The golden God- Enjolras frowned, making an attempt to chew his lip but winced at the sting of the cut and stopped. He took a seat on the bench. Everything about him was stiff, from the clean line of his nose, the set of his jaw, to the posture he took on the shitty metal bench.

Guess his new acquaintance didn’t want to talk. Grantaire shrugged. It happened. He was a common guest of the Hôtel de Police. It would be a few more hours before he would be kicked out from his current accommodation again to waste his day in the same manner as the one before and the one before that, with some honest work and then several bottles of cheap wine. Sometimes both at once as they tended to help the muse of his paintings.

He sagged down on the bench, his head at one end, feet pulled onto the other. The benches were really rather short. Maybe he could make do with a few hours of sleep instead. The shitty bench was no issue. He was one of those people who could fall asleep anywhere as long as it was relatively quiet. If the golden God decided to remain a statue then it would be awfully quiet.

“Peaceful protest.”

“Huh?” Grantaire cracked an eye open to confirm that the blond cellmate had indeed spoken. “Doesn’t look like it was that peaceful, mate.”

Oh, and this was by far the best part of his night! Somehow that offhanded observation had managed to coax a smile from the marble God. Grantaire already knew that those came rare and were miracles only bestowed in even rarer moments. He vowed to make those happen more often, upon that the God’s face may learn the pleasure they brought and would remember to make that expression all the more often.

“Occupational hazard.” The God bestowed upon him.

“Occupa-” Grantaire didn’t even get past the third syllable before a laugh cut him off, startled and genuine. A God with humour. That was rare. “You’re a full-time rioter?”

“Activist.”

“Activist.” Grantaire allowed, twisting his head to watch him properly. “And you alone were arrested because…?”

The faint smile faded, lost to the frown that the face was much more familiar with. A serious look. It was a shame and Grantaire mourned the loss of the smile already. “It turned violent. I couldn’t let them get caught.”

He sounded… regretful, but obviously not because he was arrested in their stead. Enjolras looked like he cared. Perhaps too much. Grantaire wasn’t entirely sure what that was like. Caring brought problems. Caring hurt. He had long since sworn not to bother with that. “You’re the leader.” He concluded and Enjolras studied him for a moment. It took effort not to squirm under the piercing, thoughtful gaze.

But he didn’t answer. Perhaps it was modesty. He looked like the noble leader that didn’t care who led as long as someone stood up for the cause. What cause exactly was still a mystery and Grantaire didn’t particularly care either. Though he did wonder vaguely what might inspire such passion from the God. Politics probably.

“Probably means your friends will be here soon to bail you out. Lucky. At least some people have the sense not to let Apollo rot in jail.”

Enjolras bristled mildly. Grantaire laughed.

\--

Turns out he was right. Though it still took said friends about an hour or so to come save their leader in red. An hour in which Grantaire had roused the blond to more talking. Discussions. Somewhere somehow they had moved onto the topic of education, of economics, even the climate. It was worth it just to see the golden God come to life, with red colouring his cheeks and fire in his eyes. It wasn’t anger necessarily that had summoned the fire. Grantaire delighted in poking holes in the arguments and questioning every other word. And for his part, Enjolras had seemed to enjoy it, had been surprised at the questions. There had been numerous occasions where the blond had opened his mouth to retort, but then had fallen silent and pensive. Then had returned the argument with a thought out line. Back and forth it went. There had been a few more smiles for him and a couple more laughs from him.

Until eventually the God’s friends arrived and Javert, the poor man, had been forced to unlock the door, irritated and tired. The man needed sleep. “Get up. Out. Now.” He grumbled, jerking his hands. Sadly that was only for Enjolras.

The blond looked him over for a moment before he stood and walked out of the cell.

“Maybe we meet again someday, Apollo.”

There came a sigh, but then the blue eyes turned on him again, graced with a faint smile. “The backroom of the Musain, Grantaire.”

Grantaire’s eyebrows rose in question and then in a fond smile, “Who knows, maybe I’ll drop by one of these days.”

He already knew he would.


End file.
